The air in the room didn’t just feel warm anymore; it felt heavy, charged with a dangerous sort of magnetic pull that made Penelope’s skin prickle beneath every inch of his attention. She swallowed hard as his words rang in her ear,her throat tightening in a way she found deeply unfair.
This had not been her intention.
She had only ant to tease him. She simply wanted to see the rare, almost unbelievable flush creep up his neck and ears again. She had not expected him to abandon all reason because of it.
Her mind was a whirlwind of contradictions. Embarrassingly enough, her body still rembered the pulsing ache in her bones from this morning, a lingering rhythmic soreness that served as a silent testant to his "revolutionary" capabilities.
A reckless part of her, the impulsive, starved part, wanted to pull him down and forget the world existed outside this bed.
But no.
Discipline, Penelope, she scolded herself.
She looked at the white linen of his shirt, terrified that she might see the red bloom of a fresh haemorrhage at any second. If he tore his stitches now, she would never forgive herself.
"Vincent–"
"You’re planning to refuse ," he interrupted quietly, already reading the answer forming upon her lips.
His head dipped lower, close enough that his breath brushed her throat. Her leg remained hooked against his hips while his hand slipped beneath the fabric of her skirt just enough for warm fingertips to graze the sensitive skin of her thigh.
Penelope inhaled sharply.
"I will be fine," Vincent murmured as he lifted his head. "Stop worrying."
"That is easy for you to say," she whispered back, pressing her palm more firmly against his chest as though physically reminding herself of the injuries hidden beneath his clothes. "You are impossible."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You say that like it is a flaw."
"It is a flaw," she shot back imdiately, her eyes flashing with a mix of fear and exasperation. "A severe one. You need to think of your health too. You need to follow the physician’s lead and perhaps... perhaps exercise so discipline for once in your life."
Vincent stared at her for one long, agonizing mont. The silence in the room stretched like a bowstring drawn taut, and to her utter devastation, he laughed. It wasn’t a jovial sound, but a soft, low rumble that sounded unhinged, dark and dangerously pleased.
"Too late," he confessed. "I lost all discipline from the very mont you caught my eyes, Penny."
Before Penelope could recover enough to answer, Vincent dipped his head lower once more, this ti with unmistakable intent. The teasing restraint between them had finally begun to fray, and his storm-gray eyes darkened with a hunger no longer carefully hidden.
He was going to kiss her for real.
But then he froze.
Completely.
His body went rigid beneath Penelope’s hand.
At first, she thought the pain from his injuries had seized him again, but then she saw his expression sharpen. His gaze did not shift from hers, yet sothing in those eyes changed instantly, his pupils blowing wide as though he had caught a sound far beyond ordinary hearing.
"Vincent–?"
Before she could finish speaking, Vincent’s hand slid swiftly into the soft curls gathered at the nape of her neck. His fingers brushed her skin only briefly before he plucked the heavy silver hairpin securing her hair.
Without even turning his head toward the door, he sent the silver tal whistling through the air with a motion that was terrifyingly effortless.
Thwack!
The pointed tip of the hairpin slamd through the thick oak doors hard enough to bury itself deep within the wood.
Not into it.
But right through it.
The impact echoed violently through the chamber.
And outside—
The knock that should have followed never ca.
Silence swallowed the corridor instead.
Beyond the door, the Duke stood motionless, one hand still raised awkwardly in mid-air. He had been standing there for a full minute outside the guest chamber, debating whether approaching the Marquis was politically wise. Except he was not seeking the Marquis for political reasons. He was here for sothing personal, sothing he was already regretting coming here for, but could not back out from it.
In the end, curiosity had won.
Unfortunately for him, the Marquis’s senses had apparently won first.
The Duke stared flatly at the silver hairpin now protruding through the oak re inches from his knuckles, the tal still vibrating faintly from the force behind it.
A cold realization settled over him imdiately.
Of course.
The madman had not even needed to see him to know he was here.
The ssage was painfully clear regardless.
Leave.
The Duke exhaled slowly through his nose.
"You’re just going to have to answer this ti, Vincent," he muttered under his breath.
Inside the chamber, Penelope sat frozen in stunned disbelief.
Her gaze darted from the ruined door back to Vincent, who looked profoundly irritated for so reason.
More importantly—
She had absolutely no idea that her decorative hairpin was apparently capable of functioning like a military artillery.
Before she could even begin demanding an explanation, a knock echoed through the chamber. This ti, the sound ca firm and deliberate.
It suddenly made sense.
Penelope blinked, montarily speechless. That was why he had thrown the hairpin. But how had he known soone was standing outside? She was certain she had not heard a single knock until now.
Vincent closed his eyes briefly, visibly restraining whatever violent impulse that crossed his mind in that mont. He looked back at Penelope, his expression softening almost imdiately despite the annoyance lingering beneath it.
"Stay here," he said quietly.
And with that, he rose to his full height.
Outside, the Duke stood waiting with practiced patience, his hands tucked neatly in the pockets of his pants. He didn’t move as the silver hairpin was abruptly jerked back through the wood from the other side with a tallic scrape.
When the door opened, he was t with the sight of Vincent, who stood there looking entirely too smug for a man who had nearly impaled a Duke. More insultingly, he casually tucked Penelope’s silver pin behind his ear, like it were so prized war trophy.
"Oh," Vincent feigned a dry, hollow surprise. "Lucian. You could have just said it was you. I would have aid slightly to the left."
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
His gaze shifted from the pin resting behind Vincent’s ear before settling upon the infuriating, arrogance written plainly across the young man’s face.
"You barely gave the chance to knock," Lucian replied flatly, "before attempting to lobotomize through the door."
"My apologies."
The words themselves were technically correct. Unfortunately, Vincent delivered them in the exact tone one might use when comnting on unpleasant weather. Any trace of remorse was entirely absent, and he made no effort whatsoever to conceal it.
Lucian exhaled softly, the sound of a man who had long ago reached his limit with Vincent’s temperant. "I need to speak to you about sothing before you leave. Walk with for a mont. The hallway is quiet enough for privacy."
"And if I refuse?"
Vincent leaned lazily against the doorfra, the picture of exhaustion now harder to miss if one looked closely enough. However, he still radiated enough nace to make lesser n reconsider breathing too loudly around him.
Lucian remained unmoved.
"You owe this much," he replied, his voice hardening slightly.
Unlike most n within the Empire, Lucian neither feared Vincent nor yielded beneath the oppressive force of his presence. Perhaps only soone equally dangerous could stand before the Marquis so calmly.
"And," Lucian continued dryly, "as much as it pains you to rember, I remain your superior within the Order."
Vincent’s expression soured instantly.
"You are therefore obligated to listen to ," Lucian finished. "Trust when I say I desire this interaction far less than you imagine."
Vincent clicked his tongue in irritation but offered no rebuttal. His eyes settled into a cold, focused glow. Without a word, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door firmly behind him to shield Penelope from whatever discussion was about to unfold.
"Lead the way then," Vincent muttered, falling into step beside the Duke. "But for your sake, keep whatever this is brief."
Lucian rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his otherwise immaculate features.
As they walked through the dim corridor toward the open balcony overlooking the palace gardens, the contrast between the two n beca absurdly stark.
Where Vincent carried the dark, predatory beauty of a drawn blade, Lucian possessed the cold perfection of carved marble.
The Duke was a man seemingly crafted according to divine proportions, his features so symtrical they bordered upon inhuman. His beauty lacked warmth entirely; it was elegant in the sa way winter was elegant— pristine, untouchable and quietly lethal.
Golden hair the color of spun flax had been swept neatly back from his face with effortless precision, catching the lanternlight.
His eyes, a piercing crystalline blue and unnervingly perceptive, carried the exhausting awareness of a man who missed very little.
Even relaxed, Lucian radiated authority. Not the suffocating dominance Vincent effortlessly wielded, but the calm inevitability of soone born believing the world would eventually obey him.
Upon reaching the balcony, the cool night air whipped between them, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and the distant roses from the gardens below.
Lucian leaned one shoulder against the marble balustrade, silk-clad arms folding neatly across his chest.
Vincent ignored the scenery entirely, his focus settling instead on the crystal decanter resting upon the small table nearby.
Without asking for Lucian’s permission, he poured himself a generous asure of amber liquor, the alcohol gleaming darkly beneath the moonlight.
"What exactly do you wish to discuss?" he asked, his tone as dry as the spirit swirling in his glass.
Lucian did not answer imdiately. He stared out over the manicured palace gardens, his expression weary. The silence stretched until it beca heavy, the kind of silence that usually precedes a confession of weakness... or a disaster.
Finally, Lucian exhaled softly.
"It is Livia," he said at last. "She... has been inconsolable since you dissolved the engagent."
Vincent didn’t even pause his drink. He tilted the cup back, the burn of the alcohol a welco distraction to the fire in his back.
Lucian continued carefully.
"She has spent the better part of the week begging to arrange a eting with you." His jaw tightened faintly. "I... was hoping you might indulge her this once."
Still, Vincent said nothing.
"I am not asking you to offer false hope," Lucian clarified quickly. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I only believe she needs to hear the finality from you directly. If you tell her yourself that there is no future left for her to cling to with you, perhaps she will finally stop destroying herself over this."
The night wind stirred softly between them.
Vincent remained silent.
And slowly, Lucian’s composure began to crack beneath mounting frustration.
"This is the very least you can do for ," he said more sharply. "I have not held a grudge against you for any of this. I respect your wishes. Frankly, I am relieved we are no longer becoming family."
Vincent’s eyes flicked toward him at that.
"All I am asking," Lucian continued, "is that you et her once. After all... you above anyone should understand what she is feeling right now."
His blue eyes hardened slightly.
"You spent years being rejected by Lady Penelope before she agreed to marry you," he said. "If anyone understands the humiliation of loving soone who does not choose you back..."
His gaze settled heavily upon Vincent.
"It should be you."
It beca quite obvious that he wasn’t referring to Penelope alone.
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